Tracker Jacker
by Quadrillionaire
Summary: They broke her family, and she wants revenge. Her sister was the Mockingjay. She is Tracker Jacker.
1. Prologue

**DISCLAIMER: Blah blah blah, I don't own this, blah blah blah, I don't own that, blah blah blah, I don't own ANYTHING. **

** Please enjoy.**

* * *

"Come on, Katniss…" I whisper, my eyes glued to the screen as she runs to the Cornucopia.

_"Well, there goes the Girl on Fire,"_ Caesar Flickerman says, eyes glowing in excitement.

My fists are clenched so tightly my knuckles are white, but I don't notice.

_"She's going, she's going, and… Oh! Well, look at that! Clove from District Two makes her move – just look at how she can throw her knifes – but District Twleve manages to block it! That girl is really something, I tell you,"_ the second commentator adds in, gloating that he got to narrate the first exciting tidbit of the night.

I try my best to shut out their mean voices, but they somehow wriggle past my ears, reminding me how _close_ she was to dying – and how they enjoy it.

_"And she pulls out her trademark bow and shoots! District Two manages to avoid the most critical damage, but it nicks her left arm,"_ the second commentator continues, _"I, for one, am relived she throws with her right. Wouldn't want the fun to end yet, folks!" _

I swallow hard and cross my fingers. Because I know she has a chance.

My big sister has a chance.

My heart lifts as I watch Katniss grab the yellow pack with Peeta's medicine, and she looks like she'll make it and –

A second knife whistles past, and instead hitting air it slices through her forehead, blood spurting from the nasty gash. The happy feeling that was growing in me feels like it'd been punched out.

_Head wounds tend to bleed a lot,_ I tell myself. _So it's not like there's any real damage. She'll be fine._

And then Clove barrels into her, knocking her down and pinning her down.

_"Where's your boyfriend, District Twelve? Still hanging on?"_ she sneers, and I feel my hands turn clammy.

I also feel tears starting to prick behind my eyes, but I try really hard not to let them fall. Because I know Katniss feels really bad when I cry. And I can't cry when I know she's going to win. That would mean that I was giving up on her. And that was one thing I'd never do. She's the strong one. She'll find a way out of it.

_"He's out there now. Hunting Cato,"_ Katniss snarls, and I can't help but picture him lying in the cave. Alone. Dying from blood poisoning.

_"Peeta!" _she screams, and Clove punches her windpipe, making me wince.

_"Liar,"_ Clove says after a moment, smiling evilly. _"He's nearly dead. Cato knows where he cut him. You've probably got him strapped up in some tree while you try to keep his heart going. What's in the pretty little backpack? That medicine for Lover Boy? Too bad he'll never get it."_

She grins as she opens her jacket, and I gasp.

Dozens of shiny, sleek, sharp knives lined up in neat little rows.

She takes her time picking one, and I take that time to pray. I pray _so hard_ that something – some miracle will happen. That someone would help her. All this time, Katniss has always played the part of the hero. If there really was a God, he'd send someone to rescue her, just this once.

_"I promised Cato if he let me have you, I'd give the audience a good show," _Clove continues after delicately plucking a dangerously curved knife.

By now I can't stop my hiccupping sobs, making some people look at me with pity, others with annoyance. I was being noisy at the good part.

"Prim?" Rory asks, looking worried.

"It'll be fine," I reassure myself more than him. "Sh-she'll be fine. She always is."

Katniss was really lucky. A lot of times she was really close at getting caught doing something 'bad' by Peacemakers, but she always managed to squirm her way out of a sticky mess. And when it was over, sometimes we'd make funny faces behind their backs, giggling together the whole time.

I blank out the next few moments, remembering all the fun stuff we'd do together.

Katniss giving me hugs.

Katniss singing – she had such a pretty voice.

Katniss laughing, "Tuck your tail in, little duck."

Someone nudges me, and I snap out of it to something much worse.

_"… going to kill you. Just like we did to your pathetic little alley –"_

Whatever Clove said was too much for Katniss. A fiery blaze enters my sister's eyes and she spits into Clove's face, a disgusting mixture of saliva and blood.

_"All right then,"_ she hisses, _"Let's get started."_

My screams easily drone out Clove's laughter as her knife digs into my sister's face.

* * *

A/N: **I know this is short, but it's just a prologue.**

** Feel free to leave offensive insults, constructive criticism, barbed compliments, actual compliments, non-idiotic suggestions, or your thoughts. They are all (un)equally welcome. **

** Btw, for those who forgot, Rory is Gale's younger brother.**


	2. Chapter 1: Digging Dirt

**Dear God. This turned out to be way longer than I originally planned.**

Anyways, please keep in mind that this is written in first person, therefore he/she will interpret things their own way, which isn't necessarily correct.

**DISCLAIMER: **Pretend I actually wrote one.

**X**

**x**

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* * *

I cry loudly, not bothering to rub away the trails of snot and tears, ignoring the stares.

The teacher's had sent me home early because no amount of coaxing and patting and hugging and "shh, shh, it'll be okay"'s could get me to calm down. I can't calm down. I can't I can't I can't.

Katniss, my sister. My hero.

She was the one I could always, always count on, no matter what.

When we were younger she'd always play with me, unlike some other kids I've known who had brothers and sisters ignore them, push them out of the way. But Katniss never did that. Whenever we didn't have enough food, she'd always split hers with me, saying she was full so I didn't go hungry – even if she did. In the Seam where most siblings glared at each other with resentment at having to share, even fighting and letting the younger ones starve… That really meant something.

I really loved my mom, too. But after Daddy died and she just left – I was so scared. And I'd just wait and wait for her to wake up, telling her that even if Daddy was gone she still had us. Me and Katniss. The three of us were still family… even if a big piece was missing. Together we could fix the hole Daddy left behind.

Only she didn't wake up.

I know she really loved Daddy. Katniss and I did, too.

But he must have been a really big part of her heart. Because when he left, he took it away and didn't leave enough for me and Katniss.

But Katniss was there the whole time. Even when I knew she wanted to give up, become a broken doll like Mom, she didn't. She held on for me.

And now she was gone.

And it hurt.

The sadness. I don't think I've ever felt anything like this before. Not even when Daddy died.

I can't walk anymore. It hurts too much.

So I just tumble to the dirty cement and cry.

As I'm sitting, I can't help but think of all the scenarios where my big sister lived. She'd get Peeta's medicine and he'd be okay. Together they'd come home happily ever after, in love and _alive_.

But then my mind flashes back to Clove's face. How she seemed so… so… _happy_. She seemed so _happy_ that she was going to kill my sister. Somewhere in the back of my mind I'm hoping that maybe Clove was smiling because she was closer to winning the Games and going home to her family, but I could see in her eyes that the thing she enjoyed most was causing pain.

It was fun for her.

And suddenly I'm on my hands and knees, throwing up what little food I ate today.

Because how can someone be like that?

How can someone _like_ pain? Thrive on it?

Why?

Why?

WHY?

I scream, a sobbing, messy scream filled with confusion and grief.

Suddenly I feel a hand on my back, gently helping me up, and bringing me into a hug.

I don't know who it is, but I didn't care. Right then, I really needed it.

I pressed my face against their shirt, letting out hiccupping sobs as I breathe in the scent of flour and fresh bread, ignoring everything except for the softness of the fabric of their shirt.

After a few minutes, I look up and to my surprise I see Peeta's dad.

I can tell he's sad, too. The usual warmth in his eyes was gone, and all I could see was a cold, empty shell.

Then I realize that any hope for Peeta was pinned on Katniss.

Knowing that she put herself in danger for him, died for him, when he woke up… He will pass in a slow, painful death, blaming himself as the blood poisoning spreads throughout him, eating away at his mind, leaving him in a delirious hysteria.

There could be no worse way to go than to know the one you loved died for your sake.

"Thank you," I sniff, and he nods briskly.

We sit for a few minutes, watching people go about their business and toss us the occasional glace filled with pity. It makes me feel uncomfortable, and I guess Peeta's dad felt the same because in a silent mutual agreement we both stand up and begin walking away. I'm not sure where we're going and I follow him uncertainly. Maybe he didn't want me to follow him. Maybe he was there for just those few minutes of comfort, which is more than I could ever ask for. When I see that back of his white baker uniform dusted with a fine layer of soot, it makes me feel even worse.

But when I carefully trail away, he motions me to follow with a silent wave of his hand.

Relieved, I continue tottering after him like a duckling, occasionally having to jog to keep up with his bigger, faster steps.

I'm surprised a second time when I see that he led us to the bakery. I thought he was being considerate and walking me back home.

The next thing I know, I'm sitting at their table with a fresh chocolate chip scone and a glass of cool milk sitting in front of me.

I stare at my gifts, frozen.

Milk. Even with my goat, it was something I never dared to drink. Katniss taught me it was more useful to use milk to trade for salt or oil or cloth. Drinking something so precious would only be a waste.

And the scone… it was something I'd pull Katniss to the baker's window every once in a while to admire, smelling the sweet smells and wondering what chocolate tasted like. From the rumors I've heard at school, chocolate was basically a sort of edible brown gold, something the richer kids from town would wave in front of our faces teasingly while our hungry eyes trailed after them wistfully.

How much was this luxury worth?

"Thank you… but it's okay. I'm not hungry," I say the exact moment my stomach growls.

Peeta's dad doesn't say anything as he digs his elbow into some dough, plowing and stretching it into different shapes. I can tell, though, that he won't take no for an answer.

I cautiously lift the scone and take a tentative bite.

The warmth of the sticky, gooey chocolate and the crunchy sugar-coated crust with the fluffy white bread hidden beneath… I chew slowly, savoring the flavor. After a minute, I sip some of the milk, and immediately the cool liquid washes down my thirst.

At the same time, I can't help but wish I could share this with someone.

Katniss, I know, would look at it with some suspicion ("Prim, you know we can't afford something like this.") before taking a bite. Gale would be the same. Rory would probably down the whole thing in two bites.

But they weren't here right now. So I carefully broke off half, and offered it to the only other person with me.

It's Peeta's dad's turn to look surprised, and I think he was going to turn it down, but this time I wasn't going to take no for an answer. He smiles, really smiles after a moment, and I know I've done the right thing.

"Can I help?" I ask, pointing to the dough after he finishes his half.

He nods, and the rest of the time is spent in a comfortable silence.

* * *

_"Sweet, tiny Prim... Well, It definitely shows you not to judge a book by its cover." ** – **Madge Undersee_

* * *

**Peeta's Brother's POV**

I walk home and ignore people's stares, but eventually it starts pissing me the hell off so I glare back, willing them to say something to my face. They all look away. Fucking cowards.

But I know they're still talking behind my back. I know it.

It's the worst at school. Watchful eyes that flickered away when I met them. Whispers that would ominously die down as I passed, like I was some sort of walking plague.

I push my hands deeper into my pockets and scowl.

_It's not my fault,_ I want to shout, shake the person nearest to me. _It's not my fault that Peeta's practically dead. _

Peeta, the nice, popular one with friends and admirers practically falling at his feet. Peeta, the one I knew would have been inheriting the bakery. Peeta, who was our parent's favorite.

Peeta, the brother I didn't volunteer for.

I know that's what everyone's secretly thinking. They don't dare to say it out loud, to my face, but I know it's what they're thinking.

Worst of all, it's true.

I could have volunteered. Died for his sake. Been the hero.

Instead, I'll live the rest of my life with people branding me as the selfish bastard.

It looks even worse because of that girl, Katniss. Compared to me, who shrank back when they called for Peeta's volunteers, the older sister who practically ran to save her tiny Prim was a fucking god.

Katniss. She was really cool, that girl. I don't know if she ever noticed it, but the ones who knew what she risked to feed her family respected her. It takes guts, doing what she did.

And then suddenly I'm jealous.

I'm jealous because she loved someone enough to die for them, and I could tell if the roles were reversed, Primrose Everdeen would have done the exact same thing. A family like that must be really amazing.

Oh, sure, my parents were fond of me. But I could tell, from the little details, that Peeta was the special one. Like how my usually gruff and standoffish bitch of a mother would occasionally tousle his hair, or how my father would smile when Peeta frosted his cakes.

I tried to outdo him whenever I could, and that one time I beat him at the school wrestling match I was ecstatic. And my parents looked at my medal and gave me a proud look, before turning to Peeta and saying, _"Second place in your entire school? You beat the upperclassmen, too. Wait till next year. I'm sure you'll definitely get first."_

After then I sort of let go. What was the point, anyways?

So when I got home and saw Prim and my dad baking and… _laughing_ together, the way only Peeta could make Dad laugh, I snapped.

"So, Dad, you got a replacement for Peeta already?" I ask, leaning by the doorway, arms crossed.

The laughter died down, leaving my dad and Prim looking stricken.

A part of me feels sick for what I've said, but I keep going. "Honestly, I'd think you'd wait until he was actually dead first. It's just more polite, you know?"

Now Prim looks like she's about to start crying, and from the reddish puffiness around her eyes I can tell she's already been doing a lot of it. Damn. I didn't want to do this to her.

"Aaron…" my dad says quietly, but I can hear something in his voice.

"What? You know it's true. And hey, you've always wanted a daughter, right?" I laugh, the pent up anxiety I've had for years breaking the dam I'd been building the whole time. "Might as well just adopt her – After all, her mom's probably just going to fly back to her mental wonderland."

And I know I've crossed the line.

Prim sobs as she runs past me, and I tear my gaze away from my dad, unable to face his resentment at my not volunteering for Peeta and his cutting disappointment.

* * *

_"We all have our fair share of regrets." **–** Aaron Mellark_

* * *

**Prim's POV**

I run down the steps, down the cobblestone sidewalks, and through the grimy sidewalks of the Seam.

I've never cried this much. I was surprised that I could continue. It was exhausting, but I couldn't stop.

Was I being selfish? Being with Peeta's dad when he had kids that he could have been comforting? I took away Aaron's dad when Aaron probably needed him the most.

The delicious milk and scone I ate earlier was feeling less like a gift, and more like something I stole. I know Peeta's dad was just being nice, but maybe it was just because misery liked company. Was he regretting it right now? I bet he could have earned a pretty penny for what I ate for free.

Still, Aaron's comments stung.

It wasn't my mom's fault that she went away after Daddy died. It was just that the balance in the neurochemistry in her brain went all wrong – she couldn't help it. Besides, after a while we were able to afford medicine for it, and she was okay. She learned to cope. It was hard, but she didn't give up.

And then I suddenly realize that I didn't go home to comfort her.

I wasn't there, and she really needs me now.

Now I'm really running, huffing and puffing as my heels clack on the gritty sidewalk.

The physical exertion helps, because now I'm too tired to cry, and even though I look like a mess, I didn't want to worry her more

"Mom?" I call as I open the door, slipping through quietly.

After being in the bakery with its rich smells and pleasant atmosphere, I can't help but feel a bit self conscious as I look at my own home. Small, shabby, and no matter how much we cleaned it, covered eternally with a thin layer of soot.

"…Mom?" I call a second time before making out her silhouette by the window. I rush over and crawl onto her lap like I did when I was younger, waiting for her to soothe me by running her hand through my hair and whispering that everything would be all right.

But she doesn't do anything.

Worried that I might wake her up from her sleep, I carefully unfurl my arms that I've hooked around her neck and slide off her lap. She must've had a hard day. It would be better to leave her alone so she could sleep it off. We could grieve together tomorrow.

When I bend in to give her a goodnight kiss, I notice something weird.

Her eyes were open.

Open and staring blankly.

"Mom?"

I swallow nervously. It couldn't be, right? She promised that she wouldn't… she promised….

"Mom?" I shake her lightly, hopefully. Just wanting her to snap out of it.

Suddenly I remember what Aaron said. _"Might as well just adopt her – After all, her mom's probably just going to fly back to her mental wonderland."_

I shake her harder.

"Mom? Please don't do this. We don't have your medicine. We don't have the money right now. I promise I'll try to get it later, but right now I really need you."

I feel my shoulders curl forward when she doesn't reply, and my hands fall limply to my side.

I never expected the day I lost a sister to be the day I also lost a mother.

* * *

_"She got a good head on her shoulders, that girl. Just figured out how to use it in a different way."** – **Greasy Sae_

* * *

"Prim? Prim?" I hear someone call.

My head snaps up. "Huh? Oh... Hi, Rory."

I force a smile so he wouldn't worry. Rory is one of my best friends… Or maybe my only friend. We've known each other for a while – ever since Katniss became friends with Gale.

And then suddenly I have another lump in my throat. Without Katniss, I'd be spending lunchtime alone, maybe out by the willow tree outside, or sitting in an empty classroom, alone with no one but my thoughts.

I was never that great at making friends. To me, the only friends I ever needed were Katniss and Buttercup, my cat.

But then I came to school, where groups of kids wandered around like packs of piranhas, scoping out who was on what social status, and what they could do to who and get away with it. Teachers would turn a blind eye to anything. Everything. I think they think it builds character, or maybe it's just been going on for so long they don't feel the need to stop it. Lately I've been leaning towards the latter, though.

The first couple of weeks were hard, but they weren't terrible. First it was just the occasional accidentally shove, or maybe someone would conveniently have their foot stuck out as I walked by. Maybe if I had said something then, they would have backed off, but I didn't have the courage. I still don't.

And then it escalated to sneering. Snapping my pencils. Taking my homework. Insulting my family.

I still didn't do anything.

I didn't tell my sister, though. She had enough to worry about – Mom still wouldn't wake up, there was barely any food on the table, and she had real bad nightmares about Daddy, though she wouldn't admit it.

But after one particularly bad day I had been crying when Katniss picked me up, and though I didn't tell her anything, half an hour later she was in the principal's office with bloody knuckles, a black eye, and the proudest lopsided grin on her face when she told me I wouldn't have to worry anymore.

And they left me alone after that.

Sometime later I became friends with Rory, and he had a lot of friends. So it was kind of an unsaid rule that Primrose Everdeen was not to be touched.

"… been spacing out a lot, recently," Rory finishes, pushing me from my thoughts.

"Uh-huh," I say distractedly, also pushing away any thoughts of Katniss. I'd probably cry right now if I could, but the past three weeks I've cried so much I ran out of tears. Now instead of the crushing sadness, I'm mostly just feeling empty. Like I've scooped out all my emotions with a spoon and just left them somewhere.

"You weren't listening to what I said," he huffs, a little annoyed.

I cringe a little at his tone, but I manage to blurt out a sincere apology – Which seems to annoy him even more for some reason.

"You have to stop that, Prim."

I look at him, confused. "Stop what?"

He scratches his head, and I know this is the sign that he's going to try to phrase something offensive in the most polite way possible. "Stop being such a… pushover. Like, it's not even funny how soft you are. If someone insults you, you respond with an apology. That makes you an easy target for bullies and stuff."

"Oh. Sorry." I freeze. "I mean I'm _not_ sorry… Sorry."

He shakes his head, exasperated, but I think I see a hint of a smile on his face.

And suddenly I feel a tiny bit better.

I smile again, only this time it's not completely forced. "I'll try hard at being more… not me. I think I can do it with some practice."

The two of us spend our time acting out situations where I'd have to get uncharacteristically assertive. Me refusing to cook Buttercup. Me becoming a kung fu fighter. Me brushing off a marriage proposal from William Undersee, a really mean boy whose uncle was our town mayor.

And it feels really nice, taking this little break from everything.

Of course, that's when the lights begin to dim, the teachers call out for our attention, the Capitol anthem starts, and the overhead in front of the cafeteria begins projecting recordings of the two newest Victors, Cato and Clove from District Two.

The light, happy mood shatters and I automatically feel my shoulders hunch and my limbs contract, becoming that protected little ball I was when I was being bullied.

Caesar Flickerman's powder white face pops up on screen until the camera zooms back so it can catch both Cato and Clove sitting side by side.

I'm sure they look great with the hard work of the designers the Capitol has for them, but my focus is so intent on their faces that I barely notice what they're wearing.

Cato – the one indirectly responsible for both Peeta's and Katniss'… deaths. _If only he hadn't fought with Peeta and cut his thigh so deeply. If only Peeta had dodged at that last second. If only the Tracker Jacker venom could have kept Cato by the lake for a few more minutes…_ My mind can't help but torture me with the _would have/should have/could have _game I've been playing for so long.

And then Clove. Clove. The girl who murdered my sister. The girl who not only murdered her, but made it as agonizingly slow and gory as possible – and enjoyed it.

Suddenly I'm wondering.

What goes through their heads when they kill? I know there's some sick sort of satisfaction they get, but why? How? I know they were trained as kids, but was it that brutal? Was the conscious in the back of their mind stomped out by their trainers? Was cruelty praised? "Oh look, you tortured and mutilated a bunny in the most painful way, yet managed to keep it alive by not severing any of the major bloodstreams! Here's a cookie for you–" Oh, wait. Careers weren't allowed to eat any junk food. Even that part of their life is controlled for the Games.

For some reason my brain keeps going. All the sadness and grief I've felt was flushed away, replaced by things I've never felt before. Bitter resentment. Righteous anger.

Do they know how much pain they've caused, how much suffering families felt when they had to see their children not only die, but die a slow, humiliating death at the hands of the Careers? No. They didn't. Because they didn't think about it. All they ever thought of was the fun and the winnings and their bloodthirsty families cheering them on.

I feel like marching up to both of them and shaking them by the shoulders, even if they're heads taller than me, and just _shake_ some _sense_ into them. Make them understand.

Gambling your life for the sake of glory? No. Didn't they see? They had everything. They had food and family and friends and lived in a relatively safe District where no children had hollowed cheeks and cracked lips, where no elderly had soot permanently etched into their tired, lined faces.

They had so much. But why didn't they get it?

Why?

I watch the pair from District Two as they chat amiably with Caesar, cracking jokes and laughing, and I don't see one bit of remorse, of any sort of hint that they were sorry, that if they could they'd go back and erase everything.

Instead, they look like they'd jump at the chance of doing it again.

I hold onto the table so I either don't fall off or don't scream. Maybe both.

Soon they start talking about Katniss, and you could literally hear a pin drop.

"_So…"_ Caesar says, eyebrows arched. _"That really was a show you gave us, Clove, with the Girl on Fire. How did you feel when you were finally able to get rid of one of your strongest opponents?"_

"_Her?"_ Clove snorts, disdain clearly showing both in her voice and face. _"She was pathetic. I bet she thought she actually had a chance. I just happened to be the one to pull her back into reality. And you know, I can't tell you how great it felt to finally slice her smug face off. It was_ hilarious..." she chuckles at the memory._ "I'd give anything to do it again."_

My grip on the table tightens, and I pretend my fingers are wrapped around Clove's neck.

I'd show her how it feels. How Katniss felt...

But as soon as the thought comes, it goes, and I'm left feeling horrified.

Had I really just done that? Wish for the death of someone else?

No, no, no, no, no. I wasn't like that. Wishing death upon someone else… it makes me as bad as the Careers, the Capitol. I will not sink to that level. Katniss wouldn't have wanted me to think like that. She wouldn't have wanted her little sister to change.

I'm a terrible person. Guilty, guilty, guilty.

I ignore the rest of the interview, one because I'm feeling too sick to actually listen, and the second reason which I'm ashamed to admit is because I don't want any more… stray thoughts wandering in my head.

Afterwards Rory and I talk some more, but it isn't the same. The conversation felt choppy and our laughter came out forced.

Back in the classroom we review different minerals and coal properties, but my notebook stays blank, empty of any crucial notes that might be helpful for our next test. I find myself not really caring, though. Grades were something I could improve any day, any time. A couple bad marks wouldn't kill me.

Class ends without incident. I gather my things. Begin walking home.

I really don't want to go home.

I squat down by a murky puddle in the road and watch the ripples I make with my fingers.

It's been three weeks since Mom went back into her depression.

I tried everything. Calling, begging, shouting. I even steeled myself up and slapped her a few times, poured icy cold water on her. Nothing worked.

Her health was beginning to decline, too. And fast.

At least when Daddy died she was able to function somewhat. She could eat. Wash herself. Even cook, if it was a good day.

But there was none of that now.

I had to force feed her, pushing whatever food we could get our hands on into her reluctant mouth, only hoping she'd swallow. For washing her, I'd have to use a wet rag and scrub the grime off, trying my best to keep her looking presentable. I didn't know how long I could keep it up until… Until the inevitable happened.

Sometimes I feel like the only thing keeping me there is Buttercup and my goat, Lady.

It's selfish of me not to want to go back, especially when my mom needs me, but the loneliness is so constricting the only thing that keeps me from breaking apart is Buttercup's motor-like purring, or Lady's friendly licks.

Animals are special. I don't think many people in the Seam know this, because they see animals as food more than a source of companionship.

But when Buttercup curls in my lap on a chilly night, or Lady nuzzles me with her soft nose, I feel so lucky that I know. That they are gifts of nature, something precious that many people don't see because hunger and desperation cloud their eyes.

And sometimes I wish people were like that. So simple, so pure.

But I also know I can't let my mom die. Not now. Even if she was unreliable, she was family. I loved her.

And another tiny selfish part of me can't help but be afraid when I think of the Community, an orphanage that leaves kids with a haunted expression, their eyes constantly shifting in suspicion, and their tense frames always ready to run at the slightest provocation.

Some of them weren't like that, though. The ones that have given up. Instead of fleeing or fighting, they'd close their eyes and wait for whatever it was to come at them, get it over with. Their faces empty of any emotion, just tired. Just so, so tired.

Which category would I have gone in?

I stand up, wipe my dirty fingers on my dress, and briskly walk away from the puddle.

Maybe today would be different. Maybe she's wake up, apologize for disappearing again, and we'd be back to our usual normal and cheery family of two, and live happily ever after.

I laugh.

* * *

_"Sometimes I wish I could ask people 'why?'. But something tells me they wouldn't have an answer." – Darius, the Peacekeeper_

* * *

"I'm back, Mom," I call out as I push my backpack onto the rickety dining table.

Before the silence gets too long, Buttercup meows and rubs against my legs, and I can't help but smile as I pick him up and rub him behind his ear.

_How's school?_ he asks, his green eyes peering at me expectantly.

"It was…" I contemplate on telling him it was good, but Buttercup could see though my lies pretty easily. "It was bad. Rory and I had a little fun, but then they showed the recaps at lunch. The one where Cato and Clove had the Victor interview."

_Asswipes,_ Buttercup hisses, and I can't help but giggle. I knew he didn't care much about Katniss, but he hated the District Two winners because I loved Katniss and they killed her. It was nice to have someone angry for my sake.

"Well… I'm okay now," I say, sprinkling my voice with extra cheeriness. He looks skeptical, but doesn't comment. "Anyways, have you been having any luck with that Persian cat you were talking about?"

_Oh, her? Nah, I'm over that one. She was a real bitch, to be honest. Always complaining about not licking my fur enough or some shit._ He pauses, looking thoughtful. _But there were a pair of sexy Siamese twins down by the Hob._

"Don't worry, I'm sure they'll love you," I say, and I can't help but grin. Buttercup always manages to make me feel better.

He smiled smugly for a moment and purred as I continued to pet him.

After a minute or two I set him down and he yawns and curls up by the window.

I sigh as I watch his tail twitch, so relaxed and carefree.

It was time to check on my mother.

I take on last glance at Buttercup before taking a deep breath and stiffly walk into the bedroom.

When I get in, the smell immediately hits me. Bile, urine, stale air. I can't help but think that this is what death must smell like.

My mom sits propped up in the bed, staring out into nothing. Still as a statue except for the shallow rising and falling of her chest, the only telltale sign that she's alive.

I crawl over to her and sit by her side, my arms tightly wrapped around my knees. I usually do this for about an hour or so. I know some stuff about medical procedures, and I've heard some claims that a patient in a comatose state will recover faster by having a loved one by their side, or just listening to them talk. Some people are skeptical about this, but I really think it's true. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she could be listening to me talk about my day and coax herself out of the crevasse of her depression. It might not happen in a day, but in due time.

Of course, it wasn't like I had a lot of time.

I push that thought away and tell her about school – an edited version. She didn't need anything more negative – and how Buttercup and Lady are doing, and about the dandelions I saw blooming by the sidewalk today.

About half an hour passed before I heard a knocking on our front door.

Slipping off the bed, I close the bedroom door behind me and jog over to the front door and open it.

Gale.

"Hi," I beam, letting him in.

"Hey there, Prim," he replies fondly, ruffling my hair.

Gale had become something like a brother to Katniss and I. At first I thought he was kind of scary – didn't smile much. Seemed standoffish and aloof. But then little by little he and Katniss starting chipping away at each other's defenses, and I began to see the occasional flash of unguarded laughter, or a teasing gleam in his eye that hadn't been there before.

Katniss going into the Games had made us even closer, though.

At first we just had exchanges – some of his game for a bottle of Lady's milk, or some cheese. Normally he might've stayed a bit and also exchange pleasantries, and at first I was worried that maybe he resented at having to share the spoils of his hunt. After all, with a family of five there was only so much you could spare.

But soon I realized that he, in his own way, was still mourning the loss of a hunting partner. A friend.

But like how he and Katniss slowly grew on each other, the two of us starting having the occasional conversation. Then every now and then we'd drink mint tea together.

Then the 'every now and then' turned into a habit for every time he stopped by.

He sits at the table as I heat up some water, and I take that time to look into the game bag.

It's a decent haul today. Two rabbits and some squirrels. I remember the chunk of cheese I had been saving for him and pull it out from its hiding spot.

As he pockets it the tea kettle trills, and I pour it into two cracked, but still usable cups.

We drink in comfortable silence.

"Hey Prim," he says after a minute.

"Yeah?"

"It's been a while since I've seen your mom. She still… resting?"

I couldn't let Gale know about my mom's condition. He already had a lot on his shoulders. What would telling him do, anyways, other than add another worry to his load?

I knew I could make up some easy lie – she had started traveling to her patient's homes to check on them. Something simple. But I knew I couldn't lie to Gale, so the only thing I could come up with was that she was bedridden and sick with something and wasn't in the mood for visitors.

It wasn't really a lie. Sort of.

But I can tell he's suspicious. Who wouldn't be? After three weeks she should be better.

"I need to talk to her for a minute. Can you get her for me?" he asks, his grey eyes drilling into mine. I try not to swallow nervously.

"Um… She really isn't feeling good, so how about another time?"

And then I want to smack myself. That was my weak excuse for last time. And the time before that.

His eyes narrow, and I know this time he's not going to fall for it.

"Wait. Gale…" I say as he strides over to the bedroom door. He looks at me expectantly while his hand rests on the doorknob.

Okay. So I need to say something that'll definitely get his attention somewhere else.

_Rory scored second in class yesterday._

_Greasy Sae's nephew's birthday was today._

_I saw a really pretty cake at the bakery._

Instead, I blurt out something even I didn't expect.

"Teach me how to hunt."

He doesn't say anything for a moment, but his eyebrows raise up to his hairline.

"Me. Teach you. To hunt," he repeats, and I can hear the amused disbelief in his voice. I know he's remembering the last we tried that brilliant idea.

I really don't like the woods. Too big, vast, ominous. Shadows are everywhere, and they have a way of playing tricks with your mind. And there're so many noises – cawing of birds, twigs snapping from footsteps that aren't yours. What if a rabid dog or a hungry bear ambles by? And then there's that risk of the officials catching you. I know that most of them ignore it because the Peacekeepers are one of Gale's best customers, but I can't help thinking _what if, what if…_

The worst part, though, is actually killing the animal.

One time Katniss shot a rabbit, and it wasn't her usual clean shoot through the eyes. Instead, it hit its neck and all I could remember was the blood and the rabbit convulsing and twitching and its wide eyes panicking as we came closer. I thought that maybe if we took it home we could bandage it and somehow heal it.

My crying scared away any other potential game that day.

"Yeah. I think I can do it better now," I say, trying to keep my eyes from flitting to his hand, which still wasn't letting go of the doorknob.

He looks at me skeptically.

"Um. Maybe I can work with… traps. I didn't try them before," I say eagerly. Or try to, anyways. The idea of trapping animals makes me feel sick.

Finally his hand slides off the knob and folds his arms, thinking.

"Well… alright. But we should tell your mom," he says, and I feel my relief plummeting again.

"No!" I almost shout, and Gale gives me a quizzical look. "I mean… No… She'll probably just get worried and she's so tired already."

He looks me over for a bit, and I try not to squirm.

"All right," he says after a moment, and I try not to let out a sigh.

So that's how ten minutes later we were hiking by the fence, dandelions and weeds rustling by our ankles.

_You know, we could just gather plants around here and make a salad and not go into the forest at all,_ I want to say, but keep my mouth shut and continue to hold on to the back of his shirt.

The trees loomed and I distinctly heard the noise of something that wasn't human.

My grip tightens.

For a few minutes we keep walking along the fence, and though it isn't buzzing with electricity, I can't help but stare at the warning signs posted every now and then.

"All right, we're here," he says after taking a glance over his shoulder, both to check on me and to see if there was anyone else around. Then he grabs the weak fence and tugs, motioning for me to crawl through.

I rip my fingers away from his shirt and close my eyes as I push myself through the fence, the metal clinking noisily as it brushed against my back. Gale follows closely, but doesn't make nearly as much noise.

I can't help but feel petrified, but I restrain from reaching out and holding onto him again. He couldn't baby me anymore. I needed to grow up.

The leaves shrouded the sky, becoming a canopy filled with shadows and secrets. I've always loved the sun, so the sudden lack of it leaves me feeling deprived. I ignore the urge to constantly look over my shoulder, to check if something would pop up from behind a bush, or attack from the trees. Gale would have known if something dangerous was trailing us.

He keeps his bow at hand and walks swiftly, but I have the distinct feeling that he's slowing down for my sake, and it bothers me. Was I being a burden?

No. He had already gone hunting today. This was a little something extra.

I'm not exactly noisy as I trail behind him, but compared to his quick, silent footsteps I'm practically an elephant herd. So I try and follow his exact footsteps, and it helps. It was odd, how he seemed to know where exactly to place his feet. In the crevasse of a rock, in between a weave of ivy. Things I never would have noticed.

The silence stretching between us isn't constricting. It's necessary. It's occasionally interrupted by a call of a Mockingjay, or the bubbling of a stream, but I wish we could actually talk.

Suddenly it's completely broken by the sound of thrashing and shrill screaming.

Gale immediately bursts through several thick bushes and I quickly follow, wondering what could make such a hideous, desperate noise.

A large rabbit is dangling by its hind legs which were tied back by some sort of thick vine, and I could see a steady trickle of blood dripping from its mouth.

Gale brandishes a knife from his pocket, grabs the rabbit by its head, and –

"Gale, stop!" I shout, my hands clenched. A little voice inside of me is telling me to be quiet. A fat rabbit like that would mean a decent meal for Gale and his family…

But that voice is overwhelmed by the terrified look in the animal's eyes, the blood, and the thought that maybe it was a female and had a burrow filled with babies she had to take care of.

"Prim…" he says carefully, but I can tell there was defeat in his voice. He would let it go if I told him to.

"Please," I whisper, and after a sigh of resignation he shakes his head and cuts the vine. I can't help but feel a bit better as the rabbit scrambles to safety.

But the feeling of elation is quickly stomped out by the cutting look of disappointment from Gale.

"I'm sorry," I mumble, looking down.

"'S okay," he sighs again, but I know that in his mind he's calculating the losses of letting go of that rabbit. It could have been cooked in a creamy stew, or traded for salt, oil, grain…

We walk back home after that.

* * *

_"It's weird. I mean, in the Seam we get used to losing stuff. But some people try to find them again, only in the wrong place."** – **Vick Hawthorne._

* * *

**Gale's POV**

"Prim…" I say in what I hope is a steady voice, hoping that my irritation won't show through my clenched teeth, my clipped tone.

She looks up at me with those big, blue eyes and I can't help but feel the grip on my knife go slack. She's so small. So… untainted, if that's the word for it.

Everyone in the Seam is used to death, to suffering. If I were to pick any other random twelve year old girl and put her in this situation, she wouldn't hesitate to kill this animal. And that would be the smart thing to do.

But Prim is different. I don't know why. But she is.

So when she says 'please', I sigh and cut the vine, watching my potential dinner flee, resisting the urge to grab my bow. It's not like I could be quick enough to shoot it, though. I wasn't Katniss.

Katniss.

Her name brings a wave of pain that I barely conceal. There wasn't a day that went by when I wasn't thinking about her, remembering her. Wishing she had my back when I went hunting. She's been with me for so long I forgot the inconveniences, the loneliness of hunting alone. And maybe, just maybe she was something more than just a partner, a friend. But that thought hurts too much to even think about.

I lost her. I didn't want to lose Prim, either.

And suddenly I realize that I'm relieved.

Prim is the same. Even when Katniss was gone, I still had her. She was the same tiny, fragile Prim who cried when she thought Buttercup was lost, who tried her best to help when Rory was sick, who still tried to keep animals alive because she couldn't bear not helping anything in pain, even if she went hungry.

So when I sigh again, it's a sigh of relief.

The Games, as twisted as they are, haven't changed Prim.

And I hope they never do.

* * *

**X**

**x**

**X**

**YO. WARNING. HEADS UP. READ THIS IMPORTANT, LIFE-ALTERING STUFF RIGHT HERE.**

At first I thought this story would be kind of an exciting adventure sort of thing, but then I thought it would have more depth if shit REALLY WENT DOWN. A darker, horror story filled with content not suited for the light-hearted. Psychologically disturbing and all. (And yes, I'd have to change the rating.)

So what do you guys think? **TELL ME YOUR OPINION. TELL ME. TELL ME. TELL MEEE.**

It's important. If you don't want the story to head down that lane, just tell me. _¿_Tú Comprendes? Good.

Anyways, (completely off topic, you can stop reading now) sometimes I wonder if Prim is a bit too mature for a twelve year old, but then again she had a hard childhood. At times she seems to be a bit too babied, too. I think this came from the alternations of living a very shitty life and having Katniss coddle her too much.

And yeah, this chapter is mostly just kind of explaining the situation. You know, since this is Prim. What else would you have expected her to do other than cry and sniffle after Katniss died?

The next chapter will speed up the story plot a bit more.


	3. Chapter 2: Planting Plots

**A/N: **Heheh. I actually finished this a week ago, but I was too busy watching The Big Bang Theory to post it...

**O**

**o**

**O**

* * *

**Rory's POV**

"Bye Posy!" the Vick and I call out as she waves from the doorway, her tiny fist curled around out mom's dress, the other waving energetically at us.

"Bye-bye Vick! Bye-bye Rory!" she beams, and I can't help but grin back. Posy's smiles are contagious, for some weird reason.

And then we're off.

Vick and I usually don't talk much on our way to school. We're really close, though. It's just that Vick is kind of quiet. Well, not 'kind of'. He's really quiet. For most people, talking to him is like talking to a rock. You get no response and you look stupid. It's not like he's a snob or he's one of those ridiculously-shy-low-self-esteem kind of guys, but he just doesn't really like to talk. That's all.

And just because he's quiet doesn't mean he's stupid. Vick's really smart – just not in the way most people would recognize. Actually, I bet he'd be the smartest kid in his grade, but I know he messes up problems on tests on purpose. He doesn't want the attention.

But when Gale would ever bring back a trap of show us how they work, Vick would get them perfectly on his first try. It's actually really annoying since I suck at it, but maybe I'd have better luck using a bow or something. Besides, bows are cooler.

He also always seems to know what you're thinking, too. No kidding. It's honestly creepy how he can guess what you're feeling just by staring at you, but I got used to it.

So I guess that's why five minutes later he looks at me and asks, "So, do you wanna talk about it?"

"Talk about what?" I ask, trying to cover my irritation. He wasn't even looking at me. Was I _that_ easy to read?

"Something's bothering you," he shrugs, kicking at a rock we pass by.

Well, apparently I was.

"Nothing's bothering me," I snap. He doesn't respond, but I can practically see the skepticism radiating from him.

I let out a frustrated sound and march ahead of Vick, leaving him behind.

Still, he was right. Something was bothering me, actually.

Prim.

Yeah, well, Katniss died. If Gale had went into the Games and died, I'd be devastated, too. Not just devastated, I'd be crushed. So I imagine what Prim feels like.

Even if Gale were to have suddenly died it would be horrible, but I still have Mom, Vick, and Posy at home. It would feel lonelier, more empty without his sarcastic chuckles and wrestling matches we'd have together. But I'd still have mom's first-class hugs, Vick's silent understanding, and Posy's amazing smiles. I think it would be a lot harder for Prim, though. I hate to admit it, but I think she was a lot closer to Katniss then any of us were to Gale. Considering the past situations, I guess it was reasonable. After all, when their dad died I heard that their mom clocked out on them, and...

Ugh. Even if it wasn't their mom's fault, it still makes me angry.

When our dad died, our mom was about to have Posy. That loss must have been really hard on a pregnant woman, but she didn't disappear on us. In fact, she went searching for a job barely a week after Posy was born.

So how could Prim's mom just do that? Push the responsibility onto two kids?

I remember how Katniss resented her afterwards, and I don't blame her. Even I didn't like Mrs. Everdeen after I heard what she did, but Prim completely forgave the woman.

She's just way too soft.

Well, at least she had her mom now. So that was all good. It might take a while, but she'd definitely get better. Smile more, like she used too. Not those half-hearted ones she gives out now, but her real, shining smile…

Oh. That's weird. I just realized how similar Prim's and Posy's smiles were.

I ignore that thought and wave to my friends as I get closer to school.

"Hey guys!" I shout, jogging over.

"Heeeeey, Rory!" Daniel shouts back from under the sycamore tree in the front yard. It's my group's unofficial hang out. No one else sits by it but us.

"Hey…" Blake mumbles as I get closer, one arm slung over his eyes. He isn't much of a morning person.

"Where's everyone else?" I ask, sitting down.

"Not here yet. You came earlier than usual, darling," Daniel answers, eyebrows wagging.

Daniel was definitely the 'ball of fun' or whatever in the group. The stereotypical class clown – never takes anything seriously, loud, fun, and can take a joke. Of course, that makes most teachers hate his guts, but he doesn't seem to mind. I think he's actually proud of his detention record, which broke the last one by a mile. And he still has at least another half year until we graduate.

Our schooling system is kind of different. We stay in primary for a regular length, and we either have the choice of continuing or dropping out.

Most choose to continue. If you drop out, job pickings are really slim unless you take on some other education, like a medical apprentice or a merchant's assistant, or opening your own shop. But the chance of that happening is astronomically low for us Seam kids, so we just move on. Our next school focuses even less on regular curriculum like math and science and more on coal and mining and stuff.

But see, the catch is if you keep going you have sign a contract that forces you to work in something mining-related. For men they usually become coal miners. Women usually do something like sorting minerals or cleaning out minerals. You can get out of the contract by paying a fee, but it's so expensive that no one ever bothers. As long as their concerned, they're lucky to get a job that has them breathing in coal dust twelve hours a day.

Oh yeah, there's another school you can go to, but it's exclusive to the kids at town. It's not an official rule, but the tuition is something only they can afford.

Unlike us, they have the choice of becoming researchers, scientists, musicians... In fact, if they're talented enough sometimes a Capitol scout will invite them to work over there instead. From what I know, the people born at the Capitol are used to luxuries and living an easy life. None of them have the willpower to push themselves to do anything more extraneous than putting on make-up and getting plastic surgeries (God forbid they actually put effort in _studying_). The Capitol has to get the brains from somewhere, right? So they travel from district to district, pulling out the brightest minds to join them.

It makes me mad, but at the same time I get some petty satisfaction.

They won't ever get Vick, who was smarter than all those town kids combined, or Prim, who had the potential to be the greatest doctor ever.

Whatever. Their loss.

I let my eyes wander to Blake, who was on the verge of falling asleep. He was the exact opposite of Daniel. Crabby, rude, short-tempered, and very, very lazy. He didn't get into much trouble and got decent marks, despite the fact he never studies.

I guess opposites do attract. The rule certainly applies to this clique. All the other guys are really different, and we have a way of getting on each other's nerves, but we somehow balance each other out at the same time.

My train of thought is interrupted when I see a flower sprouting from in between the roots of the tree. Small, soft yellow colored petals. Delicate stems. Thin, crisp leaves.

Primrose.

"Hey, what're you grinning about? It's really creepy," Daniel says, following my eyes. Suddenly he breaks into a sly smirk, and gives me a nudge.

"So. You like primroses, huh?" he asks as I wipe the smile off my face, slightly confused. I didn't know I was smiling.

"What? Yeah. Sure," I say, not really knowing where the conversation was going.

"Hey. Hey Blake," Daniel says, nudging Blake. He growls at first, but then Daniel bends down and whispers something in his ear. Blake then smirks similarly to Daniel, eying me like I was doing something amusing.

I felt like I was being left out of a joke. "What?"

"Oh, nothing. Daniel here was just telling me about how much you like _primroses_."

"Yeah? So?"

"I bet they're your favorite," Daniel says. "You always get pissed whenever I accidentally step on one."

"Well, yeah. I mean, they're… I dunno. You shouldn't step on flowers," I say a little defensively. Suddenly I'm wondering why I do get angry. I mean, they're just plants.

"In fact, I bet you like _all kinds_ of primroses. Yellow kinds. Pink kinds. Blue kinds…" Daniel trails off, his smirk growing. "Oh, let's not forget… the _Everdeen_ kinds…"

What he's implying hits me hard. _"What?"_

"Aw, come on buddy. No need to deny it…" Daniel grins as I sputter.

"The definite sign of a young man in love is an inability to speak in coherent sentences," Blake adds, sitting up.

I glare at him and take in a breath. "God… No. Just _no_. We're _friends_."

"Just because you're friends doesn't exactly mean you don't want anything… _more_," Blake said, an eyebrow cocked.

"Yeah, dude. We've. Got. Your. Back," Daniel whooped.

I curse and look away, not able to suppress the traitorous red blush. _Of course_ they notice, and being the true friends they are, they put the effort to make it worse.

And, _of course_ to make the situation worse, Prim walks through the school gates and waves to me, smiling.

"Hey, look who's here," Blake whistles, waving her over.

Before she can take a step, I grab them and pull them away, not turning back.

Ugh. I _did not_ like her!

* * *

_"Stupidity isn't hereditary, but it is highly contagious." – Thresh's sister_

* * *

**Prim's POV**

_16.)_ _Coal is composed mostly of:_

_nitrogen_

_carbon_

_sulfur_

_hydrogen_

I stare at the paper, thinking hard. My eraser is almost completely nubbed out, so I ignore the urge to chew on the back of my pencil.

Oh, I knew I should have reviewed for the quiz…

The questions were pretty easy, but recently I haven't had a lot of time to study. And I learned this basic so long ago I pretty much forgot everything.

_Um…_ I think, ignoring any unnecessary thoughts, _I know for sure it isn't hydrogen…_

I draw a line though C, and stare blankly at the three remaining answers.

Sulfur… Sulfur has the melting point of 112.8 °C …

–_I wonder if Mom's okay_–

...wonder what temperature coal has to be…

–_I left her at home alone_–

…and there's a lot of nitrogen on Earth…

–_She didn't eat anything last night_–

…come to think of it, there sure is a lot of oxygen, too…

–_She's getting so skinny too skinny this is bad_–

…wait, this question has nothing to do with oxygen…

–_A doctor we need a doctor really bad I can't keep going like this_–

…

I feel a cool hand on my shoulder, and I look up.

Mr. Arcarthy.

Our teacher.

Right then is when I realized I was pressing the pencil against the paper so hard the tip had snapped and my hand was shaking.

I let go and rub my wrist, face burning.

He didn't say anything, but eyed me critically for a moment before moving on.

I spend the rest of class listening to the sketching sounds of pencil against paper. I had left about a third of my test undone, but at this point I couldn't really care less. I don't think I could have finished it if I tried.

So instead, I let my eyes wander.

The old, almost broken clock on the wall on top of the cracked chalkboard claims that it's 2:57. The second-hand desk the teacher sits in is usable, but chipped and dull. The floor tiles are gritty and I can't tell what color they originally were.

When I look over a little to the left, the first person I immediately notice is Charlotte Lee and her long, curly black hair… and even that's enough to make me stiffen. Seeing her used to scare me a lot more, but not as much anymore – Since she stopped bullying me, I think.

My eyes then drift to the person sitting in front of me.

Sandy, messy boyish hair that stuck up in odd angles. Daniel, I think. As I look around, I notice that none of his friends, including Rory, are sitting by him. The teacher must've separated them.

Rory. I can't help but cringe when I think of his name.

He's been avoiding me since last week, though I don't know why. I must've done something wrong, though when I try to remember I come up with nothing. Maybe he was angry about… um… maybe I didn't give enough of Lady's cheese to Gale and Rory couldn't eat any? No. I think that happened once before and he was a little annoyed, but he didn't ignore me. Not like this, anyways.

I've tried to apologize to him a couple of times, but he was always with his friends and they'd snicker whenever I came by. Then he'd get mad and glare at me as if I did something bad.

Maybe… maybe he just didn't want me around anymore?

I quickly stamp away that thought and think of something else. Rory and I were really good friends… right? Well, maybe I wasn't as fun as his other friends, but still.

For some reason, though, I can't stop the nagging in the back of my mind. Why _did_ Rory hang out with me? Whenever we talked, we would laugh, but not as much as he did with his friends. When we'd go outside I could never play sports like his friends could.

Suddenly, everything I did, everything I _was,_ paled in comparison to his friends.

I shake my head. It wasn't good to make assumptions – I'd ask him about it later.

The bell rang, signaling for everyone to leave. I squeezed through the mob of pushing and shuffling feet, somehow making it though. Quietly slink through the loud, crowded hallways, trying to look as small and inconspicuous as possible. Lockers bang as I cross the hall saved for the kids from town – who else could afford the fee for lockers? – and I make my way home.

* * *

_"Did you know the biggest stars sparkle the prettiest? Well, they also die the fastest..." – Posy Hawthorne_

* * *

"Hi, Buttercup," I smile, reaching out to pet him.

Instead of waltzing forward and purring like usual, there's an urgent look in his eyes as he bounds towards me.

"What's wrong?" I ask, concerned, as his tail flicks anxiously.

_The woman,_ he meows, _the woman in the bed isn't doing too well. I can feel it. She doesn't have a lot of time, Prim._ He looks at me, anxiety filling his large, yellow eyes. He knows I need my mother.

I freeze, my hands still outstretched like claws. Animals, I know, have a special sense. A swallow will build its nest so the entrance will face the opposite direction of the wind. Rats leave ships that they instinctually know will sink. Even ants know when it'll rain. It seems like humans were the only species who can't foreshadow things like that.

I finally snap out of it when Buttercup nudges my hand, worried.

"...Oh," I manage to say, my fingers swirling in his orange fur in an attempt to calm myself down.

_Whatever happens, Prim, I'll still be here._

"…Yeah. Thanks, Buttercup. It means a lot to me."

And it really does.

I keep his words in mind as I return to the bedroom, only to be assaulted with the foul smells again. It isn't the first time I wonder if my mom's recovery was hindered by the lack of fresh air. I can't help it, though. The bedroom has no windows and I'm not big enough to carry her back and forth. Besides, it'd be dangerous if someone saw her through a window.

Buttercup gently butts his head against the back of my leg, and it gives me enough courage to keep walking into the room.

The skeletal body with its glassy eyes and lifeless gaze is unrecognizable as the mother who raised me. I remember people told me that once she was a very beautiful woman – and I don't doubt it, either. The memories are hazy, but before Daddy died I remember the laughter in her eyes and the swing in her step that made her seem younger than she really was, even under the layer of Seam grime and the unnatural thinness due to hard times. But after he left is when things changed. Her shoulders hunched, the laughter was extinguished, and her feet dragged.

And the woman in the bed is not even that. She is only a shadow of the person she was.

And when I look at her, really look, I finally realize it.

She is dying.

Somewhere deep down inside I know I've been denying it – after all, I've been in the apothecary business long enough to know that the survival of a patient relies heavily on their will to live. In fact, my mother herself was the one who told me this.

Does that mean she has no reason to keep going? I am not enough for her sanity?

Apparently not. But that doesn't mean I couldn't try.

I don't sit by her and talk, though. It may have had some effect, but I don't have time for that anymore. She needed something else, something _stronger._ Stronger than her daughter's love, anyways.

I rake my brain for some answer, a solution to this problem.

Who would be willing to help us? The Seam doctor refused to help – I had no money. Besides, with my mom out of the picture he makes more money. Then do I have anything of worth to give? My goat, Lady? No. That wouldn't work. I don't know if I'd have the heart to let her go – she'd only go to a butcher's shop. Not only that, she alone wouldn't have brought enough money to purchase medicine. And the medicine takes days to deliver – did we have that time to afford? At this point, I wonder if medicine will even work.

Something… someone…

Maybe we could sell her old dresses… Yes! I haven't seen many and haven't seen them too often – she keeps her past firmly hidden under lock and key. They were very pretty. Just like she was. If I close my eyes and focus, I can almost see her younger self, laughing and spinning under the sun…

I know she would be devastated, maybe even resentful if she were to wake up and see that I've sold her dresses, but it would be better than not ever having her wake up at all. So with a heavy heart I walk up to her hand carefully unclasp the necklace she keeps hidden under the color of her dress.

It's sticky with oil and sweat, but it doesn't hinder the beauty of the intricately carved key that dangles from the bronze chain. I had never known she had this delicacy until she reentered her depression, while I was scrubbing her down with a dirty washcloth. But even without her telling me, I knew that this was the key to the classical bureau that she kept stowed away under the bed – the one masterfully carved with roses in dark, smooth wood.

I get on my knees and struggle to wrestle the box from its snug hiding spot. It's about my size and probably double my weight, but I somehow manage.

When I stuff in the key, it immediately pops open with a creak, and I can't help but gasp at the treasures inside.

Long, thick dresses filled with ruffles and ribbons that distinctly give off an aristocratic air, hues of the softest sky blues to the most striking blood red. Laces and sparkling buttons that shine so brightly, contrasting terribly with the dark, dirty Seam colors.

I immediately slam the lid down, trying to assort the mixed feelings I have. She had all this… all this for years? I knew she carried some dresses, but not anything like this. Even as we were starving and running out of decent clothes to wear, our mom had all this. Even just one of these dresses would have fed us well for a week. Was she so selfish as to cling on to her reminders of the past, even as her children in the present went hungry?

No. There had to be an explanation. Had to be some reason she held on to this.

With a deep breath I pull the lid up again, and this time I notice something hidden beneath the sleeve of a gold sweater. It wasn't anything made of fabric.

I gently pull it out, and I see that it's a colorless framed photo. It's clearly old, but of good quality. As my eyes trail down the yellowing paper I immediately make out my mom – and I can't help but compare her younger, unbelievably radiant teenage years to the sad figure sitting on the bed.

To her immediate right what I think is my grandmother, and I see that she is an exact copy of my mother, except for the eyes. My grandmother's eyes are a darker color – I can guess anything from milky brown to grass green. But they shine with a gentle sort of air that is rare in such a dirty place like the Seam. To my mom's right was a solemn looking man with a prominent jaw line and stern looking eyes. Eyes that I see in my mother, and when I look in the mirror. I realize this is my grandfather.

Standing stiffly next to my grandfather was a dark-haired young boy. I think he might be somewhat younger than me from his height and how he's dressed, but it's hard to tell because his face had been scratched out. Who is he? I don't remember my mom hinting she had a sibling of any sort. But the entire family had light hair… I suppose there are variations, but if you look closely you can see his skin tone is a slight bit darker, too. Closer to the olive colored skin of the Seam than the dainty paleness of everyone else in the portrait.

My mom had never spoken to us about her family, but as I look at this picture I see a whole different life. Rich, luxurious, happy. They look like happy memories. Why did she shut them out?

As I examine the picture closer, I hear a slight fluttering and I see some papers and envelopes had fallen out of the clasp in the back of the frame.

They're even older and more fraying than the photo, so I take great care when I cautiously pick them up, like they'll crumble into so much dust.

_My dearest Jennifer,_

_ It is with the utmost bittersweet joy that I compose this letter, as I know now that you and your blessed heart have decided to act upon charity and open an apothecary in the Seam. It is quite a risk, both businesswise and health wise. The oxygen is tainted with terrible pollution that I fear will damage your lungs and cloud your ability progress accordingly, but I suppose you already knew that. What I fear daily, though, is your safety among the Seam inhabitants. You should remember that among the community the majority are pickpockets, murderers, or drunkards. Diseases are passed among the people as freely as air, and even though you've had your vaccinations we can never be too sure. I discourage direct physical contact with patients, lest you are wearing gloves. Please remember it is best to refrain from contact in general when not in business. _

_ Your mother says my precautions are laughable, but the only thing that could quench my worries would be to see your beautiful face at home where you truly belong. _

_ Please stay safe and visit soon._

_ Sincerely,_

_ Father_

I can't help but frown as I read the letter. It's obvious that my grandfather cared for my mom, but he made the people in the Seam sounds like… like we were second-class citizens. It was true that we weren't very clean, or that some people couldn't help but rely on stealing to feed their families, but we didn't carry diseases, weren't murderers or drunkards… Um… Maybe Haymitch kind of was, but he lives in the Victor's Village, so I don't think it counts.

I flip through the rest of the letters, and it they're all similar. _I'm proud of you, remember to watch out for rabid Seam people, stay safe, come home soon._ Different words and formatting, but basically the same thing.

I finger one of the envelopes and notice in intricate handwriting:

_From:_ _Alastair Medici_

_ 4992 River Rd. #1312_

_ Topville, District 12, 79123_

I stare at it for a moment. I think I might have remembered hearing the name Medici somewhere in a short history lesson, but I can't really recall what…

Wait.

The address.

I scan it again and again, burning it into my memory, just in case I ever lose the letters.

My grandfather loved my mom a lot.

And judging by the dresses my mom had, and what their family was wearing in the portrait, they definitely had a lot of money. Enough money for medicine.

I bet he would help her.

* * *

_"When the animals put up a fight, it's a good thing; Means they want to live. They usually taste better, too." __–_ Rooba, the butcher

* * *

I slow myself to a steady walking pace as I go down the pristine stone pathway, trying to shy away from notice, but it doesn't work. The kids born in town where they had enough to eat and pretty clothes to wear – they had a sort of confident stride I couldn't mimic.

So I do my best to ignore piercing stares I receive as I slink by the neatly trimmed bushes and polished windows, feeling like a lone fish in a sea of sharks. Dangerous, jewelry-wearing, manicured, snobby sharks.

They usually don't let Seam kids in town, but with my blonde hair and blue eyes I could have been a town kid. But even my best green checkered dress paled in comparison to the town style, and I couldn't completely wash all the soot off my skin, so I was watched warily. They could sense an outsider.

"Ah, excuse me…" I start timidly to a woman reading on a park bench.

She looks up sharply and scans me with her eyes, decides she doesn't like what she sees, and leaves with a snort. I couldn't have felt worse if she had slapped me.

I probably would have started crying, but after everything that happened so far, something like this doesn't seem worth crying for. But it doesn't stop the embarrassed red flush crawling up my cheeks, because I know other people were discreetly watching, probably snickering to themselves.

Shamefaced, I start making my way down the street when I here footsteps behind me.

"Excuse me, young lady."

I turn around to see an older gentleman around his late sixties carrying a cane and wearing a plain brown suit and a brown fedora, large horn-rimmed glasses perched on his hooked nose. I stiffen, waiting for him to insult me, reprimand me for coming here. Instead, he smiles and asks if I need help with something, which actually took me off guard.

"Um…" I start, then snap out of it. "Yes, actually. Could you tell me the directions to get to River Road?"

"Certainly. You keep walking down this street, take a left where you'll see a restaurant…" he continues, and I have to work hard to remember everything he says. After a minute, he finishes and I thank him gratefully. I probably would have never found the street if I had been searching on my own.

I'm about to turn to leave when he starts to say one more thing.

"Now, you seem like bright child, so remember this situation the next time you think of people," he says with a twinkle in his eye, and before I can ask what he means he winks and hobbles away on his cane.

As I follow his directions, I mule over his words. _The next time I think of people…_

I shrug and stow away his words for later. I'd have plenty of time to think about it then.

While I continue walking I can't help but marvel at the difference between the town and the Seam. Of course, it's nothing compared to the Capitol with its pristine white floors and glass buildings dozens of stories high, but it's still pretty amazing. I think of how there aren't any children begging on the streets, or buildings so in disrepair they look like they're about to cave in.

I wonder what they think of us.

As I get closer River Road I notice a subtle increase in quality of the shops and homes. It wasn't something you'd easily notice, but it's there. The architecture is slightly of higher technique, or the people in the windows are finer dressed. By the time I actually get there, I'm afraid of touching anything, should I accidentally leave some sort of microscopic soot mark.

_1309… 1310… 1311… Ah ha. 1312._

I stare the house – no, mansion in front of me.

Large painted rooftops the color of the sky with at least a dozen windows staring down at me intimidatingly. Bushes and hedges are trimmed to perfection, and through the bars of the golden gates I can see a stone path swirling its way around the front lawn.

I had an idea that my mom had money, but not anything like _this_.

Suddenly I'm a lot more nervous, and I stand there fidgeting for a while until I spot a strange button on the gate. It was probably a doorbell of some sort.

I press it once and wait for about a minute, then press it again. For a little while it looks like nothing is going to happen, but at the moment I start walking away a cool female voice comes out of a nearby speaker.

_"Hello, and welcome to the Medici residence. How may I help you? …Hello? Hello?"_

I stare it for a second before realizing I should probably respond.

"Yes, please…" I say, but she continues to ask if anyone's there. Then I realize I have to press the button for her to hear my voice, but by then it's too late.

When I press the button a second time she says the same thing but I can sense the annoyance in it.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know how to work the thing," I say apologetically.

_"I see,"_ she says, her tone softening. _"May I ask the reason for your appearance?"_

"Um… I came here to see Mr. Medici, my grandfather."

There's a pause before she continues. _"Dr. Medici does not have any relations that could provide him with a grandchild, I'm afraid. Perhaps you've mistaken the address…"_

"Wait!" I say, "My name is Primrose Everdeen. He had a daughter – Jennifer Ever… I mean, Medici. Right?"

Silence rings for a few more moments, and it was longer than the previous one. I'm worried that she hung up on me before the static crackles and the gates unlock.

For a little while I'm unsure of what to do, but then the gates begin closing again so I march in.

Before I have a chance to knock on the door, it flies open, smacking my hand.

A stern-looking middle aged with graying hair stuffed in a bun looks down at me intensely, and I try not to squirm as she looks into my eyes.

"I see… interesting…" she murmurs, and I recognize her voice from the one from the speaker.

Apparently I've passed whatever scan test she was doing, because she nods briskly and walks away, motioning for me to follow her. At first I'm unsure (my shoes might leave dirt tracks or something), but I quickly close the door behind me and jog to catch up to her.

When I was coming here I had so many questions to ask, but when I try to remember them, I get nothing, except for a few that seemed kind of rude to ask right now.

Our footsteps echo on the long marble hallway filled with paintings and a lot of expensive looking things in general, followed by the occasional Persian carpet that silences out footsteps every once in a while. I have never felt so out of place in my life.

I also can't help but admire the view from the large, glassy windows. It leads straight into the garden, which I'm surprised to notice didn't have any flowers, but was filled with medicinal herbs like aloe, elderberry, ginseng, and valerian. Huh. I kind of expected miles of rosebushes, or some other type of regal flower.

I've personally never liked roses. I have to admit they were pretty, but they seemed so stiff and serious, and not particularly useful for anything. My favorites are honeysuckles and dandelions. I've been repeatedly told that they're just weeds, but I guess they've never licked the sweet sap from a honeysuckle bush, or run across a field of dandelions when they were white and fluffy, watching the seeds fly like snow…

The woman finally leads me to a pair of large double doors streaked with gold and takes me in.

The room is big. Bigger than my house… Ah… well, my house is kind of small… but still, the room was big, and the ceiling high. I was tempted by the sudden urge to clap my hands to see if I could make an echo, but I restrained myself.

"Sir," the woman said, bringing me out of my childish train of thought. "I think there's someone you'd like to meet."

And then I notice the man sitting at the large wooden desk doing paperwork of some sort. I can't recognize him from this far off with the glasses to obscure some of his face, but my heart skips a beat when I see his strong jaw line, the first detail I singled out when I saw his face in the photo.

"Martha, what could it possibly be? I'm quite…" he trails off when he meets my gaze, and I can't help but startle as I stare into his steely blue eyes, so similar to mine.

I feel really uncomfortable as he studies me, even more so than when Martha did, because his stare is much deeper, with more meaning, though I don't know what.

Maybe if I were the Prim from before Katniss went into the Games, the one that was used to being coddled and babied, I would have tried to look away and hide behind Martha. But I'm not. So I stare back at him and try my best not to flinch as I mentally compared him to the picture I saw earlier.

Lines are etched into his face, deepening his stern expression, and he had on glasses this time. His hairline was receding a bit, and he seemed even more solemn than the man in the picture. But I can see it. Age can change a lot of things, but not the core characteristics of someone's face. Again, his jaw line was the first thing I noticed. I have his eyes. His pointed nose and aristocratic features are there as well. Yes, I definitely remember the whitish blonde hair, too.

"Come closer," he commands in a deep baritone voice, and I stride forwards with more confidence than I felt.

When I stand in front of his desk, our blue eyes are clashing so intensely you wouldn't be able to break the tension with a pickaxe.

"Your name, child?" he asks after a minute, but I know it's actually an order.

"Primrose Everdeen," I reply, and I see a flicker of _something_ behind his steely eyes, his emotionless façade.

"Miss… Everdeen," he says, and I can almost see his lips curl in disgust as he says my name. "What business of your is so important that you feel the need to take time away from my work?"

I take a breath. "My mother, your daughter –"

"I have no daughter," he states quietly, almost in a pleasant tone, but I hear the venom under the sugarcoated sentence. At one point I might have be cowering away, but the person I am now digs my heel into his carpet and keeps going.

"That's not true."

There's a long silence, and I become aware of the old grandfather clock that ticked mockingly as the silence continued to stretch. Finally, he says, "Are you accusing me of lying, Miss Everdeen?"

"Yes."

I watch him carefully, waiting for him to snap, yell, explode, threaten. But nothing happens, and I have the feeling he's waiting for me to back up my claim.

I dig in my pocket for the letter, and I can't help but feel a little relieved that I thought to bring one of them with me.

"You wrote her this," I say almost triumphantly as I place the letter on his desk, on top of all his other files and paperwork. He lifts it with his thumb and forefinger, as if it was something unpleasant he'd rather not touch. While the grandfather clock ticks impatiently, he looks at the paper from different angles and even held it up to the light. When he confirmed its genuinity, he placed it back on the table and slid it towards me.

"Very good, Mrs. Everdeen. You are correct. I did, in fact, write this letter."

"So you admit that you lied," I say.

"No. I admitted nothing of the sort."

"But…" I begin, confused. "Jennifer Everdeen is your daughter – You even said so on the paper!"

"Jennifer Everdeen _was_ my daughter," he said almost painfully slowly, as if he was a teacher explaining something to a simpleminded child.

"What? She's still alive, you know," I snap.

"I know that, silly girl – I disowned her."

I blink.

"What?"

"Are you deaf, girl? _I disowned your mother_."

The words sink in, and I feel my knees start to buckle. Luckily, I could hold myself up by pressing my hands against the desk and leaning in. I think he took my change in body language as a challenge, because his eyes narrow.

"Why?" I ask, feeling weak, but grateful that I manage to sound defiant.

"Why?" he repeats disbelievingly, and finally his cold, unfeeling mask shatters.

"You ask me why I disowned her? Let me tell you why – Your mother was selfish. Ungrateful. Arrogant." by then he's also standing, his hands planted to the desk, and he towers over me. "Your mother was _weak._"

I feel fury bubbling up inside, the raw, blinding fury that I felt when I was watching the Victor's interview. Every bit of fear that almost had me quaking has disappeared, replaced by hate and loathing and anger for this one man who I had been pinning my hopes on.

"How could you say that? My mother was _not weak_. She tried her best. She tried her best for me and my sister and my father – "

_"You dare to speak of that pathetic street rat in my home?"_

"My father was not a 'street rat'! He was a kind and honest person who loved us, which is more than I can ever say for you. He was more than you can ever hope to be."

"A fool… Just like your mother," he barks, "I offered her everything. She had the world in the palm of her hand. Luxurious foods. Expensive dresses. Do you know what an ungrateful bitch she was?"

By now I'm trembling, barely holding myself from lashing out. "What did she do to deserve this from you? What could your daughter possibly have done to make you hate her so much? She loved you. Did you know that?" He seems appalled that I would even suggest something like that, so I scream, "_She loved you. She loved you and you know it and don't you dare deny it._"

Then, to fuel my anger, he laughs. A bitter, condescending laugh.

"Really? Do not humor me now, child. If she loved me, she would not have left with that filth, that coal miner she claimed to _love._ A disgrace. She shamed me, she shamed this family."

I stare at him, eyes widening with shock, then narrowing in disgust.

"So that's what this is all about. Just you and your superficial pride, worrying about what you look like in the eye of the public. Because that's so important. More important that your daughter, at least."

"Pride? You honestly think this is about something as simple and shallow as pride?"

"What other reason is there?"

"Reasons a child like you would never understand."

"Oh, is that what you think?" I bristle. "Do you know where I got that letter? In a locked box that had carried her most prized possessions – her priceless dresses. There was a picture. A picture of you, her, a little boy, and your _wife_ –"

I didn't see it coming.

His hand connects with my face so hard I see momentarily see spots. I hit the floor so hard there's an audible pop and a shooting pain, and I know some damage has been done.

"Sir!" Martha gasps, but he silences her with a look so filled with wrath that I can't help the traitorous sensation of fear that prickled my skin.

"You will never mention my wife with such disrespect again. Do you understand?" he asks quietly, almost gently. But this time I hear so much anguish, so much pain in his voice I just nod silently, clutching my arm.

The next words that slip out of my mouth are "I'm sorry". I don't know why. Suddenly, I remember Rory telling me that I was soft, that I apologize too much. I'm too tired to even feel frustrated by it.

It takes a few minutes for his shoulders to relax. He walks around his desk and rips open the red curtains, sunlight now streaming through the dark office.

"Why did you come?" he asks, and now his voice is completely devoid of any emotion. It wasn't exactly the same as the icy wall he put up to hide earlier. It was more like he was so drained that there wasn't anything left to hide.

"My mom. She's sick," I whisper. "She needs medicine."

He doesn't answer for a moment, staring out the window. "I see."

"Please help," I say, not bothering to fight anymore. "I'll pay you back."

"I'm sorry," he apologizes, shaking his head. "But your mother is no longer of my concern. She cut off any ties we had when she ran off with your father. I wish you the best of luck."

I guess that was Martha's signal to escort me away, because I hear her footsteps coming towards me.

"No. Please... _Please_…" I say, tossing away my pride and pleading. Martha gently hooks her arms under my armpits and begins to pull me away, my injuries screaming in the process.

I begin to squirm, kicking and flailing, ignoring the searing pain, but my tiny frame is easy for Martha to subdue. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry. I was wrong... You were right. Please, please don't do this... Are you listening to me…? I'm begging you… _I'm begging you, you sick bastard…"_

My grandfather ignores me and faces the window, and his back is the last thing I see as I am ripped away from my only hope.

* * *

_"If you want to know what a man's like, take a good look at how he treat's his inferiors, not his equals." __– Sirius Black_

* * *

Today is the same as yesterday, the same as the day before yesterday. Tomorrow will be the same as today, and it will repeat again and again and again.

Oddly enough, without my mom to worry about, everything's easier. There's less pressure. I breeze through my tests, and my teachers smile and nod, glad that their student finally feeling better, or that at least my marks are improving their paycheck.

I smile at them to show that everything's okay and they don't question it, even as my smile freezes onto my face, fake and plastic. Because asking would mean they cared. And caring takes effort.

I stare at my desk, which is filled with crude graffiti – usually horribly drawn pictures or bad words students sketch in with their pencil when they're bored. I think the teachers don't care much about that, either. In fact, to my right there's a boy who's writing an alphabetic list of curse words and Mr. Arcarthy only stopped by to correct his spelling.

In a corner of the mouth of my desk I found a clean spot and carefully began marking the days since my mom died. So far it has five little scratches, and I add another one for today.

The body's actually starting to smell pretty bad, and the idea of getting rid of it kind of makes me feel really gross. I mean, after all, she was my mom. I loved her.

But fortunate and unfortunately, Gale has started working in the mines a little while ago, so I could be a little lenient about when I have to bury her since he didn't visit anymore. The problem was, I wasn't strong enough to dig a hole big enough for her body, nor did I have a shovel.

That only left one option. To dump her in the woods.

The idea of letting wild animals get at her is even more sickening. Thinking about it actually made me throw up a few times. But I don't think I had a choice. Letting her body rot in the house was not an option.

So I spend the day listening blankly to the teacher, avoiding Rory, and dodging unpleasant confrontations.

Just like usual.

* * *

_"I believe whatever doesn't kill you, simply makes you... stranger." __– The Joker_

* * *

The smell was unbearable, so I wandered for hours outside until it was dark, the night swallowing everything with shadows. There's no moon out, either, and the pollution blankets the stars. Luckily, the injury I got was only a sprain. It was uncomfortable, but it wouldn't hinder me from my job.

Tonight will be the night I get rid of my mother's body.

I stand in front of the door I hadn't opened in six days, my stomach curdling.

But I had to get it over with.

I take in a deep breath and open the door.

You see enough corpses when you grow up around the Seam, but somehow seeing the body of someone you love is different. You see a corpse on the street, and you say, "oh, that's too bad" and move on with life. But when you see the body of someone you love, you remember their lips that would curl up into a smile, or their warm hands that would hold yours. Instead, you see a stiff, cold shell. It's very disconcerting.

I thank God that I closed my mom's eyes after she died – if they had been open and staring, I don't know if I could have gone through with it.

I can't see too much in the dark, but when I roll her out of bed, she hits the floor hard with a sickening splat, and I swallow the urge to scream. As I wrap my fingers around her ankles, they sink in unnaturally to the blobby, decomposing flesh. I pull on her body, humming to block out the dragging noises it makes.

I should have done this sooner – a day after her death would have been preferable. Then the body would have been in rigor mortis, where the lactic acid would have made the body stiff and hard. Easier to carry.

Anything was better than this.

Her hair would occasionally get in sticks or plants, and then I'd have to go back and untangle it with my clumsy fingers. It was so tempting to just yank and hope it'd come loose, but if chunks of her skull were to be pulled off and left behind, they might be found.

I cough up bile multiple times, and by the time I've found the hole I went through with Gale my throat is burning and it hurts too much to swallow.

I take great care in pushing her body through the fence – I definitely didn't want to leave any strips of flesh behind now – and I make my way through the woods, away from the fence.

The anxiety I felt when I came here with Gale was absolutely nothing compared to the hysterical terror I felt now. With Gale, the sun steamed through the treetops and I had his protection to reply on. Right now I was alone, it was night, and I was carrying a decomposing corpse that was bound to attract predators.

I stop by a tree with low branches, and from the prickles I can tell it's an evergreen.

I don't have the energy to head back yet.

So I say a prayer to God and wish and wish… but I don't know what I'm wishing for.

And that's when I hear it. A little grinding noise.

Scared, I turn left and right, but I don't see anything. I could make out shapes, but nothing specific, so I didn't know if something was hiding in the bushes or something.

I stiffen, my heart beating like crazy, but all that was there was that odd little grinding noise.

It takes a minute for me to figure out the sound was coming from my feet where my mother's body is. I swallow back some more bile and lean in, the grinding getting louder and louder and louder and louder until I realize…

_Maggots. _

I finally snap, coughing and jerking and crying and screaming because I'm only twelve and this is shit and who the hell has to drag their mom's body through the woods at night and hear maggots eating her body and I'm scared and lonely and scared and lonely I'm so scared…

And that's when I hear the second sound.

The snap of a twig.

Without hesitation, I barrel up the tree grabbing and lifting branches as fast as possible just to get away from the ground away from shadows and maggots and snapping trees – just to _get away_ and leave and go, go, go, go…

My sobs had attracted a pack of wild dogs, and when I look down I see the alpha of the pack staring at me, two big, yellow, hungry eyes…

But I keep climbing, keep climbing, keep going until I'm up and away just keep going I have to keep going and never look down and just keep going… Ignoring the sounds of barking and growling and snuffling and chewing and snapping bones…

I'm finally as high as I can go, and I cover my ears and wish Katniss was here because she always knew what to do… This wouldn't have happened if Katniss were here… Why did she leave? I need her. I need her so bad, because I don't have Mom anymore. Gale's gone, and I guess Rory was, too.

I need Katniss so bad.

I cling to the trunk of the evergreen and imagine what Katniss would do if she were here with me.

And then I know what she'd do.

She'd sing.

So I close my eyes and sing, even when my throat's hurting and dry and it feels like I'm sticking it with needles, I close my eyes and sing.

"_Deep in the meadow, under the willow__  
_

_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow__  
_

_Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes__  
_

_And when again they open, the sun will rise…"_

I imagine Katniss' smiling face as she strokes my hair, and I forget my grandfather who refused to help me.

"…_Here it's safe, here it's warm__  
_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm__  
_

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true__  
_

_Here is the place where I love you._

_Deep in the meadow, hidden far away_

_A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray__  
_

_Forget your woes and let your troubles lay__  
_

_And when again it's morning, they'll wash away…"_

Katniss tells me to tuck my tail in, and I forget the maggots.

"…_Here it's safe, here it's warm__  
_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm__  
_

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true__  
_

_Here is the place where I love you..."_

Katniss and I braid flowers together, and I forget the wild dogs down below.

"…_Deep in the meadow, hidden far away__  
_

_A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray__  
_

_Forget your woes and let your troubles lay__  
_

_And when again it's morning, they'll wash away._

_Here it's safe, here it's warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place where I love you..."_

And I sing it again and again and again, even when the dogs leave I just stay up in the tree and keep singing.

By then my voice is so broken and disharmonized the melody takes on a haunting tune, no longer recognizable as a lullaby you'd sing to a sleeping child.

I only stop as I see the sun beginning to rise.

* * *

**O**

**o**

**O**

**A/N: Jesus. I wrote this chapter listening to some really creepy music (In the House, In a Heartbeat by John Murphy; This is Halloween by Marilyn Manson; Friday by Rebecca Black) at night. **

And then this is the result. When I looked back at it in the morning, it depressed even me. (O_O) Sorry, Prim. Your life sucks.

On another note, I stole some quotes from Harry Potter and Batman. I realized if I kept doing it, I'd eventually run out of people in the Hunger Games series to use, so you'll probably be seeing some more random character quotes from other series.

Oh yeah another thing I have to add: Prim won't be going into the Games for a little while. The story plot hasn't reached that point yet, and I don't really wanna rush it or anything. It'll be pretty satisfying when she does, though. (That is, if I break my bad habit of leaving stories unfinished.)


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